


the moon in the blade shimmered like a jewel

by Book_Wyrm



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Femslash, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3977278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book_Wyrm/pseuds/Book_Wyrm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The image of Leona standing there that day, immovable as the mountain itself, was like looking into the sun – even when Diana’s eyes were closed and her face turned away, the impression of light still remained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the moon in the blade shimmered like a jewel

**Author's Note:**

> Just some angst and smut to help me deal with the sudden onset of this ship. Written in five hours, and not proofread because I'll hesitate and hate it if I spend too much time editing right now. Possible typos and purple prose and very little real plot or continuity abounds.

 

 

“Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.”   
― John Milton,  _Paradise Lost_

 

**:::**

The truth: love of the moon did not mean hatred of the sun. It was only after the Solari punished her for her love that the sun began to blind and burn Diana’s eyes and blister her skin. She wondered if they had placed some curse upon her for her so-deemed heresy, for it had no always been so. Diana could remember welcoming its rays upon the snowy slopes of Mount Targon, the taste of sun-warmed peaches in the late summer, the way its light seemed to float in the air in the late afternoon, alive and sparkling with dust. She remembered, too, the way it shone in brown curls, the scent of it caught there, warm, heady.

But now she sought shelter from its light where she could. The trees near the Howling Marshes grew close together, their upper branches snarled together so that the only light that filtered through was murky with gloom, and in some places there were patches of shade so dense that nothing green could grow.

It was a dangerous place to rest. Few who lingered in the marshes found safe passages out again, but Diana did not have the energy to journey on the safer lands, not without a few hours of sleep. She had little fear of being taken unawares—since her self-enforced exile, she woke at each small sound, tense as some wild thing, expecting at any moment that the Solari might be upon her. If anything, the marshes might grant her some peace from their constant pursuit. Few but the bravest warriors would dare venture into the gloom, so far from the solace of their blessed sun.

She found escape from its light in a dense patch of murk beneath a towering ash, but its terrible heat remained, warming the surrounding waters until they rose in thick, foul-smelling vapors. In moments Diana’s hair was sticky with droplets, clinging to her neck and shoulders and catching in the fine crevices of her armor. She took a measured sip of water from the rationed flask in her bag. She dared not refill it from the slick marsh waters.

“A foul place,” she said aloud as she settled with her back to the ash and her blade across her lap. A morose-looking toad croaked its agreement.

**:::**

Perhaps it was the wretched heat, or the fumes of the marsh, or her own exhausted-addled mind, but she dreamt of Leona.

It was a warped dream, full of different qualities of light—warm and golden, quick and silver-sharp—and melted together with the brightness was truly Leona, and who remained completely unchanged, uncompromising, even in so strange a setting.

_They find themselves in the moon temple, the place Diana has visited only once before the Solari drove her away, a dusty and dark place in one of Mount Targon’s valleys. An indistinct, yet inescapable light drenched the air, hanging in the dusty air of the winding passageways. And ahead, the glimmer of golden armor, a flash of red—Leona, moving on into the dark ahead, her back to Diana so that her face is obscured._

_“Leona…!” Diana calls after her, voice echoing a thousand times over; but none of the reverberations being heard at all. Leona either doesn’t hear her or ignores her, turning a corner and slipping out of sight._

_Diana knows she must be half-conscious, because she was aware that this was a dream; and could see the bitter parallel between the way Leona refused to listen to her both in a dream and in reality._

_“Leona!” Diana calls more firmly, beginning to hurry after her; not knowing why she follows, only that she must. Again, she catches a glimpse of that shining armor, all the more bright and strange for the strange light of the temple._

_Diana only catches up with her, desperately breathless even in her dream, as she reaches the innermost sanctum of the temple; it somehow comes as no surprise that the ornate armor stands there just as Diana found it, and the crescent blade as well, laid out and untouched by dust, waiting. Leona has already started for it, being relentlessly reeled in, her hand outstretched—_

_“Leona, don’t touch that!” Diana’s voice tears from her. She feels sure she must have shouting in the waking world as well. “Listen to me!”_

_Leona’s hand descends upon the handle of the blade. Immediately she snaps her head sharply towards Diana, her eyes impossibly bright._

_The dream shimmered, as dreams do—Leona is being dragged away, struggling but held tight by a pair rigid of Solari warriors, their faces obscured by flairs of strange light, and Diana cannot reach her, cannot help her, can only watch her dragged away, the crescent blade still clutched in tightly in her fingers—_

It was only through great self-discipline that Diana swallowed down her scream upon awakening. The marshes were darkening; only the faintest of dusk light remained between thick patches of shadow. The nearby toad croaked, or perhaps it was a different one by now, of equally glum demeanor.

Through the wretched humid heat and the lingering fog of sleep, it took her a moment to realize that the toads were not the only pair of eyes that watched her.

“You never were one for subtly,” Diana said. Her mind, usually quick silver-sharp, stumbled over the realization that it was truly Leona standing over her, not some lingering fragment of the dream.

“And you were never one to be taken by surprise,” Leona answered. Diana’s fingers tightened upon the handle of her blade, and Leona smiled, a little sadly. “Not much has changed, has it?”

“ _Much_ has changed,” Diana snarled, hating that Leona’s voice was still so warm, so sweet— the Solari’s mere presence troubled her. Diana felt as if she was inside the atmosphere, or light that Leona radiated, as a ship was inside the drag of a whirlpool, as a bee was caught in the lasso of perfume from the throat of a flower. And again, strangely, she thought of late-summer peaches, of watching Leona take the first bite, hearing her surprised laugh as the juice dripped down her chin. The memory lodged like a knife somewhere between her ribs.

She trembled, furious, and gathered her legs beneath her, standing slowly. Leona watched her movement through the gloom with wary eyes, and Diana forced a short, mocking laugh.

“So at last you mean to take me back to the Solari,” she said. “To, ah, how did you put it? —To ‘pay for my heresy’?”

A flash of temper lit Leona’s features, and she took a step forward. Diana’s blade was up in a moment, sharp silver in the last of the dying sunlight.

“If you mean to take me to my executioners, you will find a most unwilling passenger. I will cleave your shield and your head alike before I return,” she said, her voice steady.

Leona met her gaze. “After all this time, you still refuse to pay for your crimes.”

“I wished only to follow a different path. Who did I wrong, Leona?”

“The Solari you killed were our friends—”

“ _Friends_!” Diana said, so sharply that for a moment the insects and croaking frogs alike fell silent. Her hands shook as they had not since she was a child, first learning to lift a heavy blade in the training arenas, now not with hesitation but with white-hot rage. She gestured to the mark that adorned her forehead. “The same _friends_ who branded me thus?”

In the instant it took her to take one raise one hand away from her blade, Leona threw herself forward, both shield and sword raised to strike, and strike she would have, for in her anger Diana had momentarily dropped her guard—but then she moved oddly, as if struck by something, and her attack glanced off of Diana’s shoulder guard instead of striking her throat. The impact was still powerful, jarring, but by no means the crippling strike it might have been. Diana, never caught fully off-guard, twisted to the side and dove in with her own blade, slashing at Leona’s fine cheeks, her shoulder, her unguarded legs.

The marshes came alive with light—the cold white glow of Diana’s blade and the blinding, stunning burst of red-gold light from Leona’s raised shield. Diana struck blindly without waiting for her eyes to recover from the sudden light, missed more attacks than she landed, but those she did she pressed fiercely, screaming aloud with each, beyond all reason or thought, beyond even noticing that while Leona’s shield always seemed at the ready, her sword was held still and unused at her side.

“Diana, stop—!”

On many occasions Diana had fought to kill. She did it without enthusiasm, striking only as necessary, putting thought into the timing and target of each blow. Never had she fought as she did now, without logic or thought, in some rapid-fire burst of complete lack of self-preservation and the blind fury that was most often reserved for rabid dogs and the criminally insane. Deep scratches, then dents, carved the great Solari shield, which had never before been so scarred, and with each strike the moonsilver blade came singing away only to slash again through the night.

**:::**

The things Diana loved best: the way moonlight fell across the pages of a good book, the feel of a balanced blade in her hands, watching Leona tear down bullies.

Taunts and torments were never a great part of Diana’s childhood; she had kept to herself, which made her an early target, but soon demonstrated that she was perfectly capable of giving as good as she got. A few initiators scampering off with bleeding noses and bruised collarbones earned her some cherished peace as a child, and she returned to indulging her curiosity with old tomes none the worse for wear.

Other children were not so lucky. Those who were smaller, weaker—a few children who were often short of breath—were quickly singled out by their larger year-mates. Even terribly unmatched in a fight, time and time again they would engage anyway, as any Rakkor would. The results were predictable. Spectators would laugh and howl and flinch at the sound of crunching bone. Diana never thought to interfere. She scarcely cared to watch with any more than passing interest, finding her own pursuits far more interesting after witnessing only a few such spectacles.

And so she missed the initial moment where it changed. She had found her way into the upper branches of a strong old tree and sat nestled unseen among its comfortable shadows with a thick book for company. She was aware of the group of children who had gathered around to witness a prospective fight below, but, having grown used to their usual shouts and chatter, scarcely noticed until the sounds suddenly died and an awaiting hush fell in its place.

From her vantage point, she could only see the backs of the children closest to her, nothing of those who stood at the center of the group. Somewhat annoyed with the disruption, but unable to ignore her natural curiosity, Diana closed her book and crept further out onto the branch. It was silent under her feet, not so much as a creak of protest at her careful weight.

Her first impression was of the sunlight caught in the girl’s hair, a sudden, sharp flare of it as she turned her head just so, fading just as quickly as she moved again, her chin rising, shoulders pulled back. Leona was all of nine years of age, broad-statured even then and a head taller than the tallest boy her age. The wooden sword she held was wider than many of the sapling trees that grew nearby. Even from the distance, Diana noted that there was not even the slightest tremble to her hands.

She stood between a small child two years her younger, and another, larger, older boy, whose expression was one of utter bewilderment. He said something Diana didn’t catch. Leona laughed. Her voice was clearer, carrying.

“Certainly – if you think you cannot fight a stronger opponent.”

There was a ripple of uneasy laughter from the on looking children. The larger boy’s neck, then face colored, bright red. He raised a wooden sword of his own and a hush fell again as he dove forward.

What happened was almost over too quickly to be called a true fight. Leona blocked two blows, her feet planted firmly beneath her, then, as the boy struck again, frustrated, she moved to forward and to the side. The pommel of her sword drove into his back and he went sprawling to the dirt with a cry, the sword flying harmlessly from his hands. The crowd roared with laughter. A moment later, the boy came up again, cursing, and hurrying away. Taunts followed his retreating back.

Leona did not seem concerned. She approached the smaller child, hand outstretched and the faintest of smiles on her lips. “Are you al—”

But the child turned, too, and darted away. Leona’s face fell, her hand dropped to her side. The onlookers did not seem to notice, converging on her with congratulations and pats on the back, and the next moment she was obscured from view again. Diana sank back again into the shadows, to the more secure platform of branches around the tree’s trunk. It was some time before she opened her book again.

The image of Leona standing there that day, immovable as the mountain itself, was like looking into the sun – even when Diana’s eyes were closed and her face turned away, the impression of light still remained.

**:::**

Though she fought fiercely, Diana’s blows seemed to do only glancing damage against Leona’s armor and great shield, only a scant few connecting with flesh as they maneuvered through the wretched terrain of mud and brackish water. And _still_ the woman would not raise her sword to fight back. It was as maddening as trying to cut through a brick wall. The futility of her attacks only further enraged Diana, and anger lent her strength beyond herself.

With a sudden fracture of energy, she threw herself forward, shoulder first, and Leona stumbled back a step, into a slick patch of mud. Her balance thrown, she struggled to right herself, but Diana’s next lightning-fast attack sent her sprawling to her back. Her fine sword slipped from her fingers, but even as she fell, she raised her shield to cover her face from further assault.

It was the first time Diana had ever seen Leona fall in battle, and the shock of it cut through her rage as nothing else had, halted her blade mid-swing. Leona remained braced for the next attack, shield up and head bent, though she did not make any motion to stand again. Her golden armor was dimmed by dirt and blood, and her sides rose and fell rapidly with frantic breaths.

The last of the sunlight slipped down behind the trees and was gone.

The moon would rise soon, Diana thought. Her veins seemed to sing with its nearness, with the thrill of her victory. She was still standing while Leona lay weaponless, beaten, at her feet. The victorious moon. She flicked out the tip of her crescent blade, touched it to the edge of Leona’s shield and gave it the gentlest of nudges so that she might look upon Leona’s face, her raised eyes, still bright even through the dark, even through defeat.

At long last she spoke, her voice rough. “Very well, Diana. If you will it to be this way.”

“Do you think I won’t kill you?”

“If you will it,” Leona said again. She moved her shield away entirely, resting it face-down in the mud at her side, and lay there upon her elbows, chin tilted up, throat bared and pale in the starlight, like a challenge.

Diana’s breath trembled in her throat. She could do it. She had won and Leona would not move to defend herself. She could do it. How she had imagined this moment—to have one of the Solari defenseless under her blade, to make them pay for what they had done for her—

And though this was what she had wanted, the sudden unreal reality of it happening right before her was jarring. After all this time, the real picture was a bloody, dirty, honorless fight, her crescent blade clenched tightly in hand, looking down at…

And her eyes—those damned eyes—

**:::**

“I don’t understand how you can still have the energy to _move_ ,” Diana sighed, her face pressed into a pillow. It was late, and the light of the setting sun came slanting through the windows to rest supine upon the floor. The few clouds along the horizon were the color of fire, or blood. In Diana’s opinion the entire day was far too warm to be enjoyed by anyone but fools or madmen.

Leona was practically euphoric.

“Look at this! It’s usually pitch black by now – but the sun hasn’t even set yet! There’s so much left we could do. The fields are empty. I still think I could beat you at a race, if you’d give me half a  chance. Yes, I know, old grudges, but I really think, Diana, _this_ time I could win.”

Diana groaned. It was too hot for blankets, only sheets, and she drew one stubbornly up over her bare shoulders, a gesture she hoped would convey her intention to move for quite some time.

“And I suppose the lake is empty, too. We could go and swim for hours and hours, just the two of us, and we’d still be able to see just as clear as day.”

“Perhaps when the sun sets,” Diana said, reluctant to admit that she did like the sound of that.

“But that’s the whole point,” Leona said. She left her vantage point at the window and sat on the edge of the bed. It was possible at this distance to feel her excitement like a physical thing, like a warmth. “It’s my favourite time of the whole year, Diana, I want to— _do_ something.”

Diana laughed, shortly. “I think I’ve done enough for one day,” she said, turning onto her back and propping herself up on her elbows. “You’ve left me so sore—I might well rest for a week to recover.”

“Oh, please,” Leona laughed. “I was hardly as rough as all that.”

“It wasn’t the roughness of your ministrations, but the _frequency_ of them. You’ve scarcely given me a moment’s rest since dawn.”

Leona quirked an eyebrow. “I do seem to recall you asking for more, as some point,” she said, brushing the sheet away from Diana’s shoulders. “A less charitable soul might even have called it _begging_.”

Diana said nothing in reply, her gaze steady. There was still a guilty thrill to this, an sharp edge at the knowledge of what would happen if they were caught. Life was harsh on the slopes of Targon, and the Solari did not take kindly to love that did not produce more children to supplement their dwindling numbers. (Perhaps they would not have been in such need of children had half of them not lost their lives in their coming of age ceremony, Diana thought – a little dark prickling of discontent, even then.)

But there was no resisting this. It was _addiction_. It was _fire_ , and Diana felt like mere ashes in Leona’s presence, and felt her veins burn at her absence.

Leona’s fingers ghosted over Diana’s throat before venturing downwards, over her breasts, her stomach, feather light, and dipped down between her legs to find where she was still soft and wet. Diana’s breath shook out of her. The touch burned like a live coal in the pit of her stomach.

“—your fault,” she managed, resentful as Leona’s fingers began to work in lazy circles. She raised her hand to cup Leona’s cheek, pressed her thumb against her soft and the other woman bit down, gently, teeth scraping at the fingertip, her grin bright and eyes darkened with desire.

Diana as though her whole body were a bowstring, drawn tight and trembling. She let her head fall back against the pillows and Leona’s fingers sank easily into her, rough noises catching in both their throats. The air seemed too thin, too hot to breathe. She arched, meeting each languid press of fingers with heavy, desperate pushes of her hips. The rhythm was dizzyingly, agonizingly slow—the noises that fell from her lips close to whimpers.

Leona seemed to realize the torment she was inflicting, and took great pains to draw it out. She kissed Diana’s cheek, her throat, dragged her tongue across her collarbone. By the time she made her way to kiss Diana’s stomach, it was to the sound of a steady stream of curses and implorations. Leona laughed, her breath a warm rush over bare skin, and finally moved slower. Diana gasped, her thoughts a silver haze, giving herself over wholly to the slick, hot touch of tongue, pressing upwards and finding a delicious greedy sensation that made her gasping go ragged. Her whole body hovered at the shivery bright edge of need, a clenched fist of want that left her shaking and digging her fingers into Leona’s shoulders, then at last crying out wordlessly, going tight with low, deep shudders, arching and clenching and falling away.

In the aftermath Leona looked up at her, eyes like dark amber in the light of the setting sun, licked her lips, smiled again.

“What do you say to that swim now?” she asked, and Diana could only laugh and nod.

**:::**

“I didn’t know,” Leona said, and it took Diana a moment to realize that she had spoken at all, for her mind was still stumbling over a myriad of options ranging from the humorously ironic to the disturbingly sadistic. “I didn’t know what they did, Diana. They only said that you had killed the Solari who found you in the temple, that it was your heresy that bred your hatred for us. You never—”

“Never told you?” Diana said, her own voice numb and distant. “You never took the time to ask. Never thought to question what they told you. And what does it change?” She laughed and it felt like a chore. “You would never chose me over them, not then, not now. And as long as the Solari exist, as long as you fight for them, we will never know peace.”

Leona shook her head. “We can fix this. There can be peace—”

“Oh, I will have peace,” Diana said. “I will feel a _great_ _deal_ of peace when every one of the Solari lies dead by my hand.”

She heard Leona’s intake of breath, but before she could respond Diana lowered her blade sharply away.

“Go.” She felt scarcely aware of what she was saying, of why she said it or of the meaning of any of it. When Leona hesitated, Diana snarled, “Go! Leave my sight. Do not doubt that when we next meet, I _will_ make good my promise.”

_Why not finish it now?_ she wondered, even as she watched Leona get carefully to her feet, gathering up her sword and shield. What difference did it make, to end this now or days, weeks— _please, years_ —later? She could not bear to raise her blade again, though only moments ago she had held it with such intent, such determination. Her resolve seemed as changeable as the ever waxing and waning moon.

Leona turned from her without a word. She stood, head bent and back turned, for a long moment, long enough that the rising moon cast her armor into silver shadows, catch in places and shone in her disheveled hair. She seemed as though she wished to say something more, and Diana waited—then at last Leona’s shoulders straightened and walked away, neither hurrying nor with any great delay, but steadily, resolute. Silent.

**:::**

It was a shame, Diana thought, the way people always looked most beautiful when they were walking away from you.


End file.
